“Fur good reasons, boss,” said the old man, with a chuckle. “W’en I gits dat dawg he’s jest little scabby pup an’ alluz ’nointin’ of hisse’f wid his tongue. So I ’members whar de Good Book say, ‘An’ de dawg, Mo’over, licked his sores.’ So I knowed den I had done hit on de right name fur dat pup of mine.” § 86 Question: How Far Did George Go? The white man was named Ferguson. He owned a string of two-room frame cottages and his tenants exclusively were colored. Very great was his chagrin when a negro man in a fit of pique cut a woman’s throat in one of his houses so that she bled to death, leaving a large dark stain on the floor, because immediately the word spread among the black population that the building was haunted and thereafter nobody would rent it, even at reduced rates. For months the cottage stood empty. Then the owner had a bright idea. He went one evening and hunted up a large dark individual named George, upon whom, by way of beginning, he conferred a drink out of a bottle of corn spirits. “George,” said he, “these darkies tell me you know quite a lot about h’ants and ghosts and such things?” “Well, suh, Mist’ Ferguson,” replied George modestly, “I does know a right smart ’bout sich.” “That’s good,” said the wily white man. “I’m rather an authority myself on such matters. Now, then, speaking as one expert to another, I want to tell you that shack of mine out here on Clay street, where that woman was killed, is not haunted. She died in a state of grace and her spirit rests in peace. “But the trouble is that these colored people around this town don’t know it and they’ve given the place a bad name. What I want to do is to prove to them that it’s not ha’nted. And here’s the way we’re going to do it—you and me. I’m going to hire you to spend to-night in the room where the killing took place. Then, when you come out to-morrow morning and tell your people that nothing happened there during the night, I’ll be able to rent the house again. I’m going to give you the rest of this bottle of liquor now and a fresh bottle besides. And to-morrow morning I’ll hand you a ten-dollar bill. How about it?” That slug of corn whisky already was working. It made George valiant. Besides, a white man had appealed to him for professional aid. He consented—after another lusty pull at the flask. The crafty Ferguson took no chances. He escorted his newly enlisted aid to the house of tragedy, provided him with a pallet on the floor and left him there in the gathering darkness. But before departing he took the precaution of barring the two windows from the outside and securely locking the front and rear doors.